. In front its foundation was level with the street,
but in the rear it was supported upon posts four feet high, leaving a
large vacant space beneath--a favorite "roosting" place for pigs. It was
the sight of these four-foot posts which caused the widow's champion so
suddenly to change his mind.

To tell the truth, Tom Connor, in spite of his forty years, was no more
than an overgrown boy, in whose simple character the love of justice and
the love of fun jostled each other for first place. He believed he had
discovered an opportunity to "take a rise" out of Yetmore and at the
same time to compel the misappropriator of other people's goods to
restore the widow's property. That the contemplated act might savor of
illegality did not trouble him--did not occur to him, in fact. He was
sure that he had justice on his side, and that was enough for him.

Full of his idea, Tom walked into the store, where he found Yetmore
very busy serving customers, for it was near closing time, and to an
inquiry as to what he wanted, he replied:

"Nothing just now, thank ye. I'll just mosey around and take a look at
things."

To this Yetmore nodded assent; for though he and the miner had no
affection for each other, they were outwardly on good terms, and it was
no unusual thing for Tom to come into the store.

Connor "moseyed" accordingly, and kept on "moseying" until he reached
the back of the building, and there, standing upright against the rear
wall, was the barrel, and beside it, mounted on a chair, a putty-faced
boy, a stranger to Tom, who was busy boring a hole in the top of it.

"Trade pretty brisk?" inquired Connor, sauntering up.

"You bet," replied the youth, laconically.

"What does '668' stand for?" asked the miner, tapping the top of the
barrel with his finger.

"That's the number of the barrel," was the reply. "The wholesalers down
in San Remo always cut a number in their barrels when they send 'em
out."

"Your boss must be a right smart business man to run a 'stablishment
like this," remarked Tom, after a pause, glancing about the store.

"That's what," replied the boy, admiringly. "You'll have to get up early
to get around the boss. Why, this barrel here----" He stopped short, as
though suddenly remembering the value of silence, and screwing up one
eye as if to indicate that he could tell things if he liked, he added,
"Well, when the boss gets his hands on a thing he don't let go easy, I
tell you that."

"Ah! Sm